Bittersuite
by Cassandra Troy
Summary: A series of four wartime Christmas vignettes. The first two chapters of the second part have been uploaded.
1. 1941: I'll Be Home for Christmas

**_Author's Notes: _**This is the first in a series of four Christmas vignettes. If you find mistakes, errors or problems, please let me know (13.7). Updated Part One, with a slightly revised ending; fixed typo (20.7). Fixed typo (21.7).

**_Hogan's Heroes  
Bittersuite_**

**_1941:  
I'll be home for Christmas, you can count on me . . ._**

The Wing Commander quickly shut the door behind him, as much to keep out the frost as to prevent any light from escaping. Even in the short sprint from his quarters to the Officers Club, the bone-numbing damp of England's late fall weather permeated his body.

He blew on his hands and rubbed them together, gratefully feeling circulation return.

Since making that fateful decision to volunteer for the Royal Air Force nearly two years ago, Robert Hogan had become more convinced than ever that it wasn't the sixteen miles of channel separating England from the rest of Europe that had managed to stave off Hitler's _blitzkrieg._ It was her damned lousy weather.

Not that he was complaining -- much. Had it not been for the interminable fog that blanketed much of the country, he'd be freezing his tail off inside a Vickers tonight. There _were _worse ways to spend an evening than listening to George Formby on the wireless or singing another rousing chorus of "Who Do You Think You're Kidding Mr. Hitler".

The club wasn't especially warm -- conservation of fuel had been the watchword of late -- but there was a coziness about the place, from its rich oak panelling, imbued with the woodsy aromas of countless varieties of tobacco smoke that had permeated the timbers, to its weather-beaten tables rimmed with water stains and the occasional message etched upon their surfaces. Like the enemy, the dates on these "notes in a bottle" might have changed over the years, but the hopes, dreams, and even fear, seemed to always remain the same.

The furnishings of the OC were spread haphazardly throughout the room, making for an eclectic mix -- cheap folding chairs arranged around over-stuffed Queen Anne sofas, wingback chairs in ghastly patterns, with hand-embroidered Louis XIV satin poofs in maroons and bright pinks.

A small red spinet, looking for the world as though it had been cashiered out of ENSA and refused by any self-respecting busker, was taking some additional abuse as a group surrounded it and were pounding out a much-mangled version of "The Barmaid at the Rose & Crown".

The whole atmosphere was a reflection of the mood of the British people. Though sad, tired and a bit frayed at the edges, there remained a grim determination to stand with pride, honour and dignity (or as much as could be mustered). It was something that permeated the country since Dunkirk.

America was lucky in that regard, he thought. _Surrounded by two oceans, we don't have to worry about an attack._

Hogan smiled to himself at the thought of his homeland. Nearly six years and half a world removed from his native New England had given him a newfound love and respect for the country of his birth. He'd travelled to Europe as much to straighten out his life as to make a fresh start. That was in '36. Here it was December '41, and he'd survived a revolution in Spain, the annexation of Czechoslovakia, the fall of France and dozens of bombing missions over Germany. With all he'd seen and done, he'd changed. Hopefully for the better, he liked to think.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sight of his superior officer, Group Captain James Roberts, beckoning him to join the group of men seated around one of the many tables in the club.

Returning the wave with a nod in Roberts' direction, Hogan navigated his way through the crowd towards the far end of the room.

Grabbing a nearby vacant chair, he pulled it up to the table to join his friends. He sat down, carelessly perching his cap at an angle on the back of his chair.

"How many rounds?" he asked.

"First, if you're buying," answered Squadron Leader Ted Rydell, quickly swallowing the last of his pint.

Hogan nodded at the burly officer, and smiled. The unwritten rule was that the last to arrive had to buy drinks all round, and anyone who knew him, knew he wouldn't break an unwritten rule. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins.

"Pic, will you do the honours?"

He handed the money to the youngest of their party, Flight Lieutenant Wesley Pickford. Three months out of flight school and into combat, and Pic was already a seasoned warrior.

"Be right back, chaps." He stood up and began walking toward the bar, then turned to call out, "Unless I decide to scarper with the bankroll."

"Didn't think we'd see you here tonight, Hogan," said Roberts.

"Lucky sod," muttered Squadron Leader Anthony Warwick, but there was no malice in his voice.

The remaining two members of the group, Wing Commander Brian Townes and Squadron Leader Mark Newfield, shot puzzled looks from Hogan to Roberts to Warwick.

Hogan leaned back in his chair, like the cat with the canary. "Gentlemen," he looked at his watch theatrically, "In precisely four-hours-twenty-five minutes, I officially start my ten days' leave."

Rydell whistled in agreement. "Tony's right, you are a lucky sod."

"You going home?" asked Townes.

Hogan nodded. "That's why I was late . . . I was working out the logistics. Croydon to Lisbon to Washington to New York to Bridgeport."

"It'll take you -- what, three days? -- to get home. Hardly seems worth the effort," said Newfield.

"Mark, I've spent nearly six years abroad. Looking back, I sometimes wonder just what in the hell I've been doing all this time. I miss my family, and the occasional trunk call or letter is no replacement for seeing them in person."

"No offence intended, old man," replied the Squadron Leader.

Hogan smiled. "None taken."

Roberts fingered his glass, but didn't look directly at Hogan as he asked, "Do you think you'll stay?"

He was surprised by the question. "Robbie, I'm taking leave, not going AWOL. There's a lot I miss about home, but I've got my duty here."

"And if America comes into the war?" He looked up quickly, his dark eyes searching for something in Hogan's face, and it made the Wing Commander uncomfortable.

"When it happens . . . " He stopped, realizing he had answered with "when", not "if". "If," he stressed that word, "it happens, America will be ready to do what she has to. And so will I."

Hogan stared his commanding officer down, trying to read any hidden message behind the impassive face. Although he counted Roberts as a close personal friend -- hell, all the men at the table were good friends, not just wartime buddies thrown together for the duration -- there were rumours that the Group Captain wasn't all he appeared to be. Often times, he seemed to possess intelligence not widely available to the regulars. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why the group's successes had been so high and their casualty rate so low.

"Have you heard something, Robbie?" asked Rydell, breaking the silence that had taken hold of the table.

Roberts leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "Gentlemen, war couldn't be fought without rumours."

He didn't elaborate on the statement; he didn't need to. Like a wave clearing everything from its path, a silence flowed across the room.

The world stopped, as though the universe understood more deeply than man exactly what had happened.

On the wireless, the BBC announcer was relaying the news from the States. Something about Hawaii . . . Roosevelt . . . Japanese . . . Congress . . . Bombing.

It was final. It had been inevitable. Although it wasn't yet official, America had just crept inexorably toward being another player in a second world war.

Hogan pushed himself away from the table, before his fellow squadron officers could offer their comments or sympathy. He offered no excuse, no apology to anyone he encountered as he moved like an automaton through the crowded club. He needed to be outside, away from the sudden claustrophobic feel of the room.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hogan stood on the tarmac, looking at the fog-enshrouded outlines of the Vickers. A fleeting, insane thought of stealing one and dropping a payload on Tokyo crossed his mind, and he had to fight down the impulse to act upon it. _Yeah, England to Japan non-stop. Who am I kidding? _Twelve-thousand miles away was where he should be . . . _should have been._

He cursed loudly to himself.

Chennault had been begging for pilots in China to help their fight against the Japs. Instead, he'd volunteered his skills to the RAF.

Skills? Being a pilot was about the only thing he had to offer, and suddenly it didn't look like a hell of a lot.

He raised his hand to push back his cap, a habit he'd developed to deal with frustration, only just realizing that he had left the OC without stopping to grab it. No doubt he'd catch flak from some _Colonel Blimp _about being out of uniform. There was a great deal of resentment toward the Yank volunteers by some of the older professional military. The Americans were a daily reminder of how much the British Empire had lost within their own lifetimes.

"Thought I might find you here."

Hogan whirled at the sound of his superior's voice. Too lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't heard the man's approach.

Another time, the remark might have elicited a comment about Swan & Edgar's and the remembrance of a night of women and well-deserved rest. Tonight was not one for joviality, however, and Hogan rounded angrily on his CO. "You son of a bitch!" he shouted. "You knew!"

The ferocity of his friend's voice surprised him, and Roberts realized that he would have to weigh his response carefully.

He shook his head. "That's the hell of it," he whispered, "we didn't."

The tautness in Hogan's stance didn't dissipate, but the anger in his voice had been cut slightly, "What are you talking about?"

"What intelligence has been gathered so far, pointed to the Hun planning an attack for sometime in the Spring -- "

"What?"

"Your Navy and ours have tracked several of their subs along your Eastern seaboard over the last few months. One of the reasons for the stationing of your Marines in Iceland since July. But we didn't anticipate the deviousness of the Japs."

Hogan was surprised by this latest revelation. How many other bits of information like that wasn't he privy to?

His reply was measured, "You sure as hell acted like you were expecting something tonight."

"Recently, Ed Murrow was approached by a chap who claimed advance knowledge of an attack, and wanted this information conveyed to your government. Obviously, he wasn't one of our operatives or yours. Murrow, at first, dismissed him as a crackpot. But he persisted, even providing documentary evidence from a recent battle, which backed up his claim of being at least somewhat involved in intelligence."

"Then what the hell happened?"

"There are rumours, as well as misinformation and disinformation, being generated on both sides on a daily basis. Very few prove accurate, and only so much can be acted upon without alerting the enemy that we have inside knowledge. Yesterday, you weren't at war with the Japs. Would the United States have attacked their fleet first, then?"

Hogan shook his head. His country would never run from a fight, but he also knew she'd never be the aggressor, either.

"And what happens to this guy? What other things does he know?"

"Intelligence will keep a watch on him; we'll find out exactly whose side he's working on. And when it's necessary, we'll bring him in."

Hogan nodded in agreement with Robbie's logic. He was also surprised by his CO's candidness, which made what he was about to ask more difficult. The Group Captain wasn't just his superior; since his posting, they had become close friends. Despite their disparate backgrounds -- Roberts' upbringing had been far more blue blood than Hogan's blue-collar roots -- there was a bond between them. Whether their friendship had initially been formed because of the war, it had been forged in the skies over France. When the enemy is shooting ack-ack at you and you're limping on two engines, you learn everything there is to know about the men you're with. And James Roberts was someone who he could trust with his life.

"Robbie . . . " he paused, what he had to ask was between officers, not friends.

He'd always preferred informality to dealing with the long-time rank and privilege of the Brits; this wasn't the time for it. "Group Captain, I'd like to request a transfer to Australia."

Roberts stiffened. He knew that one was coming. At times, his friend had a tendency to act on impulse rather than logic; this was one of those. "Request denied." He shook his head.

"I've got to do something." He shivered slightly, more cold than he realized, and shoved his hands into his uniform pants' pockets.

"In the next few weeks, Hogan, you're going to be needed here more than ever. How many of the pilots in the American Army Air Corps have any combat experience?"

The Wing Commander stared at the ground; the question was rhetorical. Except for the boys with Chennault and the RAF here, there wasn't anyone.

"Why did you volunteer, Commander?"

The formality in Robbie's tone surprised him. His superior wanted an answer -- an answer to something Hogan wasn't even sure he himself knew. He was one man in a world that had long since stopped making sense, and what could one man do?

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Hogan pulled out his leave papers and looked at them sadly.

_Six years,_ he sighed, as he ripped the pages to shreds, watching the bitter wind whip them out of sight. How much longer until he'd see home? He wouldn't hazard a guess.

* * *

© 2003 by Cassandra Troy. _Hogan's Heroes _is a registered trademark of Bing Crosby Productions and Viacom/Paramount. _Dad's Army _is a registered trademark of BBC._ Goodnight Sweetheart _is a registered trademark of Alomo Productions/BBC. "I'll Be Home for Christmas" © 27 September 1943 by Walter Kent (music) and James "Kim" Gannon (words). This work of fan fiction is not meant in any way to infringe on copyrights already held by these companies, their subsidiaries and/or their estates. 


	2. 1942: Please Have Snow

**_Author's Notes: _**This is the second in a series of four Christmas vignettes. If you find mistakes, errors or problems, please let me know. Special thanks are extended to my German language beta, Kerstin, and Lisa at the Schomburg Center of the New York Public Library.

**_Hogan's Heroes  
Bittersuite_**

**_1942:  
Please have snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree . . ._**

"_Weihnachtsmann_?" the officer's puzzled expression mirrored that of the four men who were gathered with him.

"Mother Goose, please confirm. You did say _Weihnachtsmann_?"

The voice on the wireless repeated the name.

He shook his head at the answer. "Roger. Papa Bear over and out."

This wasn't the first time that, after speaking with his superiors in London, Robert Hogan felt that one too many bombs had fallen near Whitehall.

"Were they serious, Colonel?" asked the radioman, as he powered down the transmitter.

Hogan handed the mic to the Staff Sergeant. "Seems like it, Kinch."

"What's it mean, sir?"

He looked at the youngest of his staff. "Just that someone has a strange sense of humour in choosing code names, Carter."

Hogan had given up trying to understand London's system in assigning code names to their operatives; it was an effort in futility. He'd finally gotten used to his present one, which at least was a bit more imposing than the Goldilocks moniker he'd been saddled with in the first month or so of this bizarre assignment.

"So, you're goin' out to meet 'im, Colonel?"

Hogan nodded at the RAF corporal. "You heard London; he's a valuable agent -- Unsung Hero classification."

The coding of the name was familiar to the men. "Unsung Hero" was reserved only for those men and women who had a highly organized operation behind enemy lines.

"If _Weihnachtsmann _is asking for a meeting with Papa Bear, it must be important."

* * * * * * * * * *

Hogan stuck his hands deep into his flight jacket's pocket in a futile attempt to keep warm, as he followed his escort, Corporal Langenscheidt, across the _stalag _compound.

The snow that had been threatening for the past day was finally starting. Both RAF reconnaissance and German meteorological reports stated that this storm was expected to be a bad one -- a blizzard, likely to ground planes on both sides.

As a boy in Connecticut, he had always loved weather like this, especially this close to Christmas, but here in Germany, snow wasn't friendly. It was an enemy. Too much, and he could be trapped or delayed far from camp; too little, and a clear trail could be laid right to the emergency tunnel entrance, which would reveal his whole underground setup.

Papa Bear was committed to a _rendez-vous _tonight, but he had an uneasiness about it. That sixth sense that there was more to this meeting than London had told him. Something was gnawing at him, and for good or ill, he'd learned to trust that gut feeling over the last few months since the formation of his escape and sabotage operation at _Luftstalag _13.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Col. Robert Hogan, senior prisoner of war officer reporting, _Kommandant." _He came to relaxed attention in front of the officer's desk and made a sloppy salute, refusing to give in to the formality that the German military demanded.

Col. Wilhelm Klink returned the salute, ignoring the attitude behind it. "Col. Hogan, may I present _Herr _Nicholaus Klaussen and _Fräulein _Dora Müller of the Ministry of Propaganda."

Hogan nodded his acknowledgement to both visitors, noting the _swastika _armbands on their civilian clothes. Neither appeared to be the type who would be looking to make certain the POWs had a happy Christmas.

Klaussen was one of those men whose age was impossible to judge. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard might have, on first glance, made him appear to be in his fifties, but his face had nary a line or wrinkle, and his suit did nothing to disguise a powerful physique. His cobalt blue eyes were bright, intelligent and watchful, as though there was very little that escaped his notice.

His companion caught Hogan's eye almost immediately. She was petite, almost tiny in comparison to Klaussen, with a pixie-like face and blonde hair that might have been soft and radiant, had it not been drawn back into a tight, severe bun. Her suit was unflattering, neutering any trace of a waist curve or bustline. It was almost as though she was trying to disguise the prettiness of her features. There was something about her that was, Hogan thought, curiously enchanting, and he had the feeling that he could gaze upon her all day. His reverie was broken by Klaussen.

"So, this is one of the American swine."

After nearly four months as a POW, Hogan had grown inured to the insults and epithets that Nazi officials hurled at Allied soldiers. To rise to the bait was to give their words power. Instead, he'd learned to watch for opportunities to unnerve them or strike back.

"I see _Herr _Klaussen was in Dusseldorf last week." Hogan smiled defiantly at the minister. He was well aware of the success of that raid, and it felt good to rub the enemy's nose in it.

"Insolence!" Klink slammed his fist on the desk.

Klaussen raised his hand in a dismissive gesture at the _Kommandant'_s outburst. "Sarcasm is a weapon of the impotent, _Oberst."_

The venom with which the remark was spoken startled Hogan. He had faced the irrational hatred of all non-Aryans by the SS and Gestapo, but this was something different. There was something in Klaussen's eyes that betrayed his contempt -- not for an American soldier -- but for Robert Hogan. It was a feeling that made his blood run cold.

The minister turned toward the _Kommandant._ "You have told me that there has never been a successful escape from this camp, _Oberst?"_

Klink smiled delightedly. "_Jawohl, Herr _Klaussen. There have been forty-three attempts since this camp was opened, and not one of them successful. No one has ever escaped from _Stalag _13."

"An impressive record."

Klaussen's eyes flashed their loathing at Hogan, making him uneasy. He could feel the sweat beading in his palms, and for the life of him, he didn't know why he was letting this Nazi get to him. Before he could work up an appropriate response, the office door opened, and the Sergeant of the Guard entered.

"_Herr Kommandant, _Sergeant Schultz reporting as ordered." The portly man saluted his superior and came to attention.

Klink returned the salute.

"Sergeant, _Herr _Klaussen and _Fräulein _Müller are here from the Ministry of Propaganda to review conditions in the camp."

In his best Bavarian manner, the Sergeant turned toward the visitors, preparing to give them the formal greeting reserved for honoured guests.

Hogan noticed the look of terror that briefly flashed across Schultz's face when he saw Klaussen. Something unsaid had passed between the two. It was the first time since he'd entered the office that Hogan could discern a chink in the cold, callous armour of the minister.

"_Oberst _Klink," Klaussen glanced idly at his wristwatch, recovering quickly. "It is getting late. I would be grateful if you would take _Fräulein _Müller to review your facilities. I would like to remain here and examine the _stalag's _records."

Another piece for the puzzle, thought Hogan. From the quickly veiled expression on the _Fräulein_'s face, this was something unexpected.

"Perhaps your sergeant could remain and help me?"

Klink was about to voice a protest, but stopped as the woman spoke directly to him.

"_Herr Kommandant, _won't you join me?"

Hogan was surprised by her voice. It was melodic, nearly musical in tone and quality, and it appeared to have an immediate effect on Klink. His countenance softened and his mouth spread into a sappy grin.

"Delighted, my dear." Klink pushed his chair from the desk, and came over to join the _Fräulein, _first helping the woman into her coat, then giving her his arm. He looked like a lovesick schoolboy, escorting his first date to a dance. The _Kommandant _and Müller said nothing as they left the office, seemingly oblivious to the others in the room.

The whole scene made Hogan uneasy. Something was very wrong with this pair; every instinct he had was working on overtime trying to make sense of what was happening. And his suspicions were only reinforced by Schultz, who was doing his damnedest to mask his expression over his superior's actions.

"Sergeant, escort . . . " Klaussen paused as he examined Hogan closely, his mouth tightened, "the American back to his barracks, and then join me here."

"_Jawohl, _sir." Schultz came to attention. "Col. Hogan, if you would follow me."

Hogan said nothing to the minister. He was actually grateful that Klaussen had dismissed him. It would give him an opportunity to pump the Sergeant for some information about the visitors.

* * * * * * * * * *

In the time he'd been in the office, a thin carpet of snow had already covered the compound. He'd have a rough time at that evening's meeting.

"So Schultz, got any plans for Christmas?" asked Hogan as he slowed his pace back to the barracks. He wanted to allow as much time as possible to get some answers.

The Sergeant matched the officer's steps, a faraway expression on his face. "_Ja, _this will be the first time in almost two years that my son will be home."

Hogan could understand the soldier's feelings; he'd already spent too many Christmases away from his own folks. "Looking forward to a nice family reunion?"

He nodded. "It has been too long."

Now was the time to put the question to him. "Think that these ministry people are going to finish here by then? That Klaussen looks to be a real hard -- "

Schultz stopped so suddenly that Hogan almost walked into him. He was caught off guard by the man's response.

"Col. Hogan, you must never speak badly of _Herr _Klaussen!" For Schultz the words were nearly an angry command.

Bingo, he thought. There was a connection between the two men.

"Who is he really, Schultz?"

"You do not know?" An obvious sadness passed across the man's face. "Then, there is nothing more I can tell you. Nothing," he emphasised the last word.

"He's not from the Ministry of Propaganda, is he?"

"If that is what he said, then that is who he is." Schultz was adamant.

"What will happen if he discovers the six pounds of American coffee in your footlocker?"

Intimidation was often an effective weapon against the Sergeant of the Guard. This wasn't one of those times.

"Please, Col. Hogan," began Schultz, "I ask this not as a soldier . . . do not make an enemy of Nicholaus Klaussen. Those who do, live to regret it."

* * * * * * * * * *

"Coffee pot working, Kinch?" Hogan didn't waste time with explanations, as he came through the barracks door and headed toward his quarters. Those could wait until after he'd got more information.

The Sergeant nodded. "We tested it just yesterday."

"Trouble, sir?" asked Carter, shutting the officer's door behind him and the other three men who made up Hogan's immediate staff.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Two visitors from the Ministry of Propaganda. Schultz is scared of them."

"Who isn't the strudel king afraid of?" the French corporal's comment elicited a laugh from the other men.

"There's something else. Can't quite put my finger on it. But something about those two just doesn't add up." Hogan refrained from expressing his own discomfiture in Klaussen's presence. That was something he intended to keep to himself.

Kinch removed the small pewter pot from its storage place, and handed it to Hogan.

"You think they're phoneys?" asked Newkirk.

The limey was often the most suspicious of the front-line team. Had his skills at mimicry, forgery and petty theft not been so invaluable to their success, Hogan sometimes wondered if he would have picked him had there been someone else with that same talent available.

"Don't bet against it," he replied, as he set up the disguised listening device.

* * * * * * * * * *

Sgt. Hans Schultz shook his head as Col. Hogan closed the door to the barracks.

_He doesn't understand the danger he is in._

Walking back to the _Kommandant_'s office, Schultz felt a chill pass through him that had little to do with the weather. There was not much he could hope to do to save Hogan from Nicholaus' wrath, but he would try. In many ways, he admired the American; he was one of that rare breed who had the ability to find a light in whatever darkness existed. And the world had grown very dark these past few years.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Hans, it has been far too long, _mein Freund." _The minister hugged the heavy man.

"Much too long," he smiled. "But what are you doing here, Nicholaus?"

"I could ask the same of you. What are you doing in this," he fumbled for a word, "cesspool?"

Schultz did not meet his friend's eye. "When the factory was closed . . . "

"_Ja, _I'd heard that it was considered vital for the war effort." Klaussen's voice was quiet, "Weapons or toys? Of the two, which has more worth these days."

The Sergeant nodded. "And being a soldier put food on the table." He patted his stomach. It was an old joke between the two.

Klaussen invited Schultz to sit, and offered him one of Col. Klink's cigars from the humidor on the _Kommandant_'s desk.

"_Danke." _He nodded, as he partook of one of his superior's finest cigars.

The minister replaced the humidor. "You should have contacted me or one of my agents. You and your family have always been welcome in the North."

"I know. But you know _mama -- "_

"As stubborn at eighty as she was at eight," smiled Klaussen.

Schultz laughed as he thought of his mother and the rest of his family in Heidelburg. "And with Georges in Warsaw with the _Wermacht . . . _re-locating like that would have been extremely difficult."

"And your pride would not let you, either, no doubt."

The Sergeant feigned his surprise. "Had there been a need, I would have -- "

"Do not lie to me, Hans!" he chastised him. "We have been friends too long for that to come between us."

Schultz puffed heavily on the cigar in an attempt to hide his unease. He tried to quickly direct the conversation away from himself, back to a subject he felt was necessary. "I was surprised to see you here, and now of all times." He looked Klaussen directly in the eye. "Nicholaus, what are you doing here?"

"Doing what I must . . . as all of us must."

"But this close to -- "

Klaussen slammed his hand on the desk. "You of all people! I thought _you _understood the nature of my mission!"

The Sergeant dropped the cigar, stunned by the outburst. "I-I am sorry," he whispered, "I j-just thought . . . " His words trailed off as he saw his friend smile.

"No. It is _I _who should apologize." He shook his head. "I am getting too old for all this, and the world is changing too much for me."

"But your work is so vital."

"Is it?" Klaussen shook his head. "Their radar . . . their sonar . . . all their technologies . . . are making it harder and harder for me to travel -- Buenos Aires, Reykjavik, Berlin, Istanbul, Cairo, Delhi, Stalingrad, Kyoto, Manila . . . it is all the same." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It was so much easier in the old days."

"_Ja, _many things were."

"But I have teams working on circumventing their detection devices. It appears to have worked. I was in New York City on 26 November -- my agents in the United States needed my attention. As a race, _Amerikaners _are very impatient."

* * * * * * * * * *

"_Vereinigten Staaten," _mumbled Carter as he struggled to translate the German he was hearing through the speaker. "This guy was in the States?"

Of the team, Carter was the only one with a limited familiarity with the language. As Europeans, Newkirk and LeBeau were able to function in several tongues. Kinch had learned German in high school; the Sergeant had hoped to attend Tuskegee for a degree in medicine, but family difficulties had changed his plans. As for Hogan, it had been a love of music and growing up in a German/Irish neighbourhood that had taught him the language. How little he knew then the use he'd be making of it.

_"Ja. Ich habe es an den Männern in diesem Stalag beobachtet; vor allem an Oberst Hogan."_

Hogan smiled to himself. Schultz was right, he _was _impatient. He had never liked mysteries. Everything had to have an explanation, a solution. No matter how bizarre, he had always been known for coming up with an answer to a crisis or a situation. And right now, Klaussen looked to be a very big problem.

* * * * * * * * * *

"This man Hogan, what do you know of him?"

Schultz felt his heart miss a beat at the question. He had not been mistaken about Nicholaus' dislike of the Colonel.

"The prisoners are very reticent in talking of themselves, but from what I have seen, he's a good man."

"Good men are worth nothing today, Hans. This one's worth even less than most."

The Sergeant shook his head; he was surprised by his friend's animosity toward the American.

"I have a very large file on him. At one time, there were even suggestions made to recruit him."

"What!"

* * * * * * * * * *

_"Ich habe eine sehr dicke Akte über ihn. Einmal gab es sogar den Vorschlag, ihn zu rekrutieren."_

_"Was!"_

Hogan's men looked at him. They didn't need to say anything; the expressions on their faces betrayed their doubt in the fragile trust that had been built up among all of them these past few months.

Pulling together a multi-national force working behind enemy lines from within a POW camp was the stuff of fiction, but somehow he had made it work.

_I'll be damned if that s.o.b. destroys everything with his lies!_

* * * * * * * * * *

"When Hogan commanded the 504th Bomb Group, his raids were considered among the most successful. After a bombing in Bremen that destroyed nine _U-bootes, _the man was labelled an extreme danger to the Reich. A team was assigned to investigate ways to neutralize him -- either in London or over Germany."

_"Mein Gott."_

"That's when he came to my attention."

* * * * * * * * * *

_"So wurde ich auf ihn aufmerksam."_

"Colonel," shouted Corporal Garlotti as he threw open the door to Hogan's office, "red alert. Klink and a woman coming this way!"

Hogan nodded. There was no time for any discussion. That would come later. Right now they were in a race for their survival.

Kinch grabbed the coffee pot, quickly putting it into its hiding place in the Colonel's desk, and then followed the other four men into the main room of the barracks.

In the few months the fifteen men had been billeted in Barracks 2, they had developed an almost automatic routine for when the guards or _Kommandant _made an inspection.

Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau, Carter and Kinchloe gathered around the main table, to all outward appearances playing a game of poker. But each held a specific position: Hogan keeping any visitors occupied in a verbal parley as he stood close to the small stove situated near the entrance; Carter in position to slow down anyone; Newkirk, shielded by Carter, able to use his _magic _fingers to lift any wallets, documents or weapons as needed; LeBeau, who with minimal movement could trigger the opening to their secret tunnel entrance; and Kinch stationed on the far side of the table, able to get off a clear shot, if necessary.

As for Garlotti, Mills, Foster, Greenburg, Hammond, O'Brien, Olsen and the others, all were strategically placed, keeping silent watch, yet prepared for any eventuality.

* * * * * * * * * *

"This surprises you, Hans?"

The sergeant nodded silently.

"My interest was piqued when I'd read that an astrologer had also been assigned to the investigation. There were thoughts that this Hogan was in league with the devil."

"The devil?" Schultz laughed at the absurdity of such a suggestion. There had been many strange things that happened in the stalag since the American's arrival, but he had no doubt that the man's allegiance would not be found in Hell.

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth," he quoted the Shakespearean verse, then stopped and looked sadly at Schultz, "_and _Hell. This world is engulfed in war, and more than you know hangs in the balance, _mein Freund_."

"But surely you do not believe that Col. Hogan is in league with -- "

"I'd almost wish he was. Then -- on our side or not -- he'd be a man! Instead, what has he done since being shot down? _Nichts!"_

* * * * * * * * * *

"_Achtung_!" shouted Cpl. Langenscheidt, as he opened the door to the barracks for _Kommandant _Klink and the _Fräulein._

Hogan and his men stood. It was the nearest to attention that they were likely to give the Germans. He was glad for it. The more obstinate his men remained, the better their resilience as POWs.

"Col. Hogan," began Klink, "_Fräulein _Müller has asked to speak with some of your men regarding their treatment, camp conditions and such."

"We did try to get reservations at the Berlin Hilton," Hogan held a sarcastic grin, which matched the tone in his voice.

"The Colonel enjoys making jokes," Müller carefully regarded Hogan, a small smile crossing her face. "Much like his sarcasm."

It was a cutting comment and meant to be. Thankfully, his men didn't seem to be aware of the verbal sparring between the two of them. Klaussen and Müller considered him beneath contempt. Based on the conversation the minister was having with Schultz, these two knew far more about him than they should, and it unnerved him.

"Your interest in our well-being is much funnier than anything I've said."

Langenscheidt visibly tensed in preparation for an outburst from the _Kommandant._

Hogan expected the comment to get a rise from Klink, as well. He was as surprised as the German corporal that it hadn't elicited any reaction. The _Kommandant _still maintained that same curious expression he had earlier. It was as though the man was sleepwalking.

Ignoring Hogan's comment, Müller turned toward Carter to begin her interview.

"Your name?"

Carter looked toward his commanding officer, his face doing a poor job of hiding his questioning of his superior on whether he should answer the Nazi or not.

Hogan nodded imperceptibly toward the Sergeant. They had nothing to lose, and depending on what the woman asked, they might be able to learn something further.

"Carter, Andrew J," said the young man dutifully. "Sergeant. United States -- "

"It's quite all right, Sergeant. Your rank and serial number are not necessary. This is an informal visit."

The young man relaxed slightly at her words, although there still remained a tenseness in his stance.

Müller smiled at him. "We are here to see that your incarceration is as comfortable as possible, especially during this season."

The Germans could afford to be generous, thought Hogan. Despite the Allies' best efforts, they were winning. He also noticed that the _Fräulein_'s voice had taken on that same musical quality he had heard earlier in Klink's office. Obviously, her venomous attitude was reserved exclusively for him.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Nicholaus, you are mistaken about Col. Hogan," whispered Schultz. "Please -- I beg you_ -- _do not do anything rash." He wanted to say more and felt that he must. Yet, the American, as much as the Sergeant liked him, was still the enemy, and there were things that had happened in the _stalag _over these past few months that might better remain unsaid.

Klaussen shook his head. "Have no fear, Hans. I have neither the time nor the desire to act against him. Whatever the price of his actions remains between he and his maker. You asked earlier why I had come here," the minister smiled. "I have come to hunt bear."

* * *

© 2003 by Cassandra Troy. _Hogan's Heroes _is a registered trademark of Bing Crosby Productions and Viacom/Paramount. "I'll Be Home for Christmas" © 27 September 1943 by Walter Kent (music) and James "Kim" Gannon (words). This work of fan fiction is not meant in any way to infringe on copyrights already held by these companies, their subsidiaries and/or their estates. 


	3. 1942: and Mistletoe

**_Author's Notes: _**This is the second in a series of four Christmas vignettes. If you find mistakes, errors or problems, please let me know. Special thanks are extended to my German language beta, Kerstin, and Lisa at the Schomburg Center of the New York Public Library.

**_Hogan's Heroes  
Bittersuite_**

**_1942:  
Please have snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree . . ._**

Thankfully, Klink and the Minister's visit had been brief, thought Hogan. Overall, the questions had surprised him. They weren't the standard ones he'd heard the Swiss Red Cross visitors ask: _Is your treatment decent? . . . Do you have enough to eat? . . . Have you been given adequate access to medical care? _Instead the _Fräulein _had asked his men the things they missed of home.

The reminiscences had, in many ways, been worse than a full-fledged interrogation would have been. You can guard your words and thoughts about which bomber group you were assigned to or the location of a top-secret airbase. Despite their importance, they're trivialities because they remain outside yourself.

Missing throwing a ball with your kid brother; sitting down for a Sunday dinner with the folks; dancing cheek to cheek with your girlfriend; or even drinking an ice-cold 'Gansett at Fenway, these are the little things that become a part of your life and make you who you are. Remove them, or access to them, and you start to feel the emptiness, the ache, the longing for home.

In the nearly four months they'd been in _Stalag _13, Hogan had kept the entire prisoner population focused on the present -- not the past and definitely not the future, that remained too uncertain. It was much easier for the men in Barracks 2 than the rest of the _stalag; _they knew of the operation. For the others, it was on a need-to-know basis only.

After this visit, he wondered when the desire for escape would become so great that he wouldn't be able to control some of them. And what would happen then? If he could see the melancholy on his staff's faces, how much worse must it be for the others in the camp?

He fumbled with the pewter coffee pot/listening device, hoping that Schultz and Klaussen had not finished their discussion. From what was said earlier, the minister was a very real threat. Any man who could travel as easily as he apparently could between New York and Nazi Germany in the middle of a war represented a grave danger.

* * * * * * * * * *

"I still do not understand, Nicholaus." Schultz watched his friend carefully. "To jeopardize yourself and your work to hunt bear?"

"I seek a most elusive animal, Hans. Cunning, clever, resourceful . . . most dangerous in the wrong hands."

The light dawned in the Sergeant's eyes, and his voice reflected his horror. "A man? You are seeking a man?"

"He is already a hunted man. The SS and the Gestapo have placed a 25.000 RM price upon his head."

"So much money for one man," he whispered.

"If I have judged his character correctly from his reputation, they've undervalued his worth. It is not a mistake I intend to make."

"Is it truly worth your risk?"

_"Ja," _Klaussen's voice was hushed. "For one such as this Papa Bear, I would risk much. That is why I must meet him alone tonight.

"Then I wish you godspeed, _mein Freund."_

Klaussen looked at his watch and rose. "Come, walk with me to my car. The _Fräulein _and I must take our leave before dark."

* * * * * * * * * *

_"Für jemanden wie diesen Papa Bär würde ich viel riskiere. Deshalb muss ich ihm heute Abend allein begegnen."_

"It's a bleedin' trap!" shouted Newkirk. His eyes were not looking at the coffee pot's speaker, but were instead fixed directly on Hogan. The Englishman did nothing to hide the unsaid accusation on his face.

_"Komm, begleite mich zu meinem Auto. Das Fräulein und ich müssen uns vor Anbruch der Dunkelheit von hier verabschieden."_

"They know everything about us," added LeBeau.

Despite the revelation that the mission had been compromised, Hogan felt surprisingly calm. His sixth sense hadn't been wrong. It functioned on a subconscious level, evaluating, judging and warning him of impending danger. And the more time he spent in Germany, the more he was learning to trust in it.

His men, though, were another matter. They had no reason to trust him or an assignment that realistically had no likelihood of success. Yet, they'd been willing in the beginning to continue the Allies' fight behind enemy lines. 

"Not everything," he shook his head, unplugging the coffee pot/listening device. "If that was the case, I'd have been arrested -- immediately."

"So, they don't know who Papa Bear is," began Kinch, "they sure as hell will if you go." The Negro Sergeant added a hasty "sir" to his statement.

"I say we pass on this mission." The RAF corporal's tone was just shy of insubordinate.

Hogan let the infraction pass; now was not the time to pull rank -- that could come later, if necessary. He was going to have to bank on his men's loyalty, if not to him, than to the countries they served.

"Pass? This is one mission we can't afford to pass on." His voice was raised in challenge, daring any of them to interrupt. "You heard Klaussen. He's got agents planted around the world. He's got a team working to block our radar and sonar. He got in and out of New York last month -- and it's a cinch he wasn't there for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade."

Hogan needed to drive his message home. "Papa Bear received an assignment from London to meet him tonight. If we pass on this," he stressed those words, "we lose a chance to crack their spy network wide open."

"You'd go out there alone to meet him, Colonel?" Carter's voice was hushed.

He nodded. "Yes." Hogan didn't hesitate in answering the young Sergeant. Truth be told, if it came down to it, he would handle the mission single-handedly. Klaussen was a danger, one that needed to be eliminated.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hogan inspected himself in the mirror. He hated the SS uniform and all it stood for, but it was what it represented that often made it an ideal disguise for missions. Fear could make men easily forget seeing things that they might otherwise notice.

Placing the cap with the death's head insignia on his head, he turned to review his men. All but Carter were outfitted in SS uniforms of varying ranks; the Lakota looked out of place in civilian clothes.

The tension in the tunnel was palpable, not a good sign for the mission's success. He'd managed to convince the men of the importance of this meeting, but it hadn't been easy. Had it not been for Carter's willingness to accompany him from the beginning, he doubted the others would have come.

Could he blame them? They were all volunteers, and would likely face far worse than he if the Nazis uncovered their operation -- the _Wermacht _and the Prussian mindset respected officers.

Respect.

That was what it boiled down to.

Despite what they'd been through so far, he'd yet to fully gain their respect. LeBeau was guarded and wary, while Newkirk was downright hostile. Kinch had a legitimate reason to be defensive; Hogan had seen the treatment that Negro soldiers had experienced at the hands of many white officers. Surprisingly, it was Carter who had expressed the most enthusiasm for this bizarre duty -- because of it, Hogan had been willing to overlook the sergeant's inherent clumsiness.

"You have the plan straight, Carter?"

He nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm to approach _Weihnachtsmann _and tell him I'm to take him to Papa Bear. I'll lead him a ways; that's when you'll arrest us."

"'e can barely speak English, let alone German," mumbled Newkirk.

Hogan turned on the Corporal. "Mister, I've had it up to here with you!" He raised his hand neck high. "Take that uniform off, now."

The four men were taken aback by the tone of voice of the normally laid-back officer.

If Newkirk had been afraid, Hogan would have accepted it. Not every man was cut out for the work he was asking them to perform. But, the Englishman's constant defiance had to be stopped, and it had to be stopped now.

"Kinch, get Olsen."

LeBeau was the first to recover his voice. "Sir?" he asked.

"The Corporal is being replaced."

Newkirk flushed in anger. "You can't do that!"

"Kinch, what are you waiting for?" Hogan didn't need to shout. There were levels of inflection that could be far more effective than a raised voice. 

The Sergeant looked from his superior to the Englishman, unsure of what to do next.

"Col. 'ogan," began Newkirk.

Hogan said nothing as his eyes narrowed on the Corporal. He was poised and ready for a donnybrook, if it came down to it.

"Please, Colonel," he whispered, "I know I was out of line, sir . . . please, let me go."

Thankfully, thought Hogan, Newkirk's anger had given way to embarrassment in front of the others. He nodded slightly to the man.

If the tension in the tunnel had been thick before, it was positively oppressive now. This mission definitely wasn't getting off to a good start.

"Carter," said Hogan, as though there had been no interruption, "let me hear if you've got the plan straight."

* * * * * * * * * *

The _rendez-vous _spot at Weber's farm wasn't far from camp, barely two and a half miles, but the snow increased the time needed to cover that distance. About two inches had fallen already, and there probably would be another two before this mission was over, making their return with a prisoner in tow all the more dangerous.

An ominous silence hung in the air, as though the bitter wind they were trudging against was keeping their tempers in check.

In truth, thought Hogan, it probably was. He'd blown his stack at the Corporal -- first mistake. Then he'd backed down in not pulling Newkirk from the mission -- second mistake. _Three strikes and you're out. _He couldn't afford to make another error in judgement, too much was riding on this.

Despite the steady snowfall and freezing temperature, the woods seemed almost alive with activity. An owl circling overhead in search of some unsuspecting prey; a fox scurrying along the roadside, seeming to keep pace with them; deer darting to and fro across their path; and even a lone firefly impossibly defying the weather and the season as it danced through the flakes.

A chill swept through Hogan.

What was the phrase, he thought. _Someone walking across your grave? _That was the feeling. Not natural; not supernatural. _Unnatural._

Nothing was wrong; yet something wasn't right.

Despite the cold, Hogan felt a ring of perspiration forming under his cap.

He raised his hand to halt his men, and motioned them to remain silent. Every sense was keyed, looking for something amiss.

Signalling, he ordered them to deploy into cover on either side of the road.

There was no dispute involving this command; a soldier's duty -- and sense of self-preservation -- could easily override an emotion as ephemeral as anger.

_Perfect place for an ambush. _The trees on both sides of the road were thick and offered plenty of cover, while the snow provided a natural blanket of silence.

Hogan hadn't realised he was holding his breath until he released a frosty sigh at the safe concealment of his men.

Whatever was out there, he was certain it hadn't seen them . . . yet. 

Pulling his gun from its holster, he surveyed the area. 

This mission had him on edge. They had been planning a double cross for _Weihnachtsmann. _Had Klaussen anticipated it? A double-double cross?

_"Kommen Sie aus ihrem Versteck! Wir wissen, daß Sie dort sind!"_

It was a bluff, and not a very good one, he thought. _Sometimes a bluff's all you've got._

Friend or foe, he'd left himself vulnerable to whoever was there. But if it could secure his men's safety, he'd play the role of sacrificial lamb.

A strong gust of wind whipped the snow violently about him. Tiny pellets of ice stung his face, momentarily blinding him, but he held his ground, not daring to make a move that might reveal weakness. 

The most important sense for a pilot was his vision, but only desk jockeys believed it was the only sense necessary to fly. Smell, touch, hearing were all vital, and when the sky was thick with ack-ack clouds or a fuel line ruptured, he'd learned exactly how invaluable those other senses could be.

His eyes might have betrayed him, but his hearing had not. Hogan whirled toward the slight rustling.

_"Kommen Sie mit erhobenen Händen heraus!" _he shouted, ordering whoever was there out into the open.

From the scurrying that accompanied his words, his command had elicited a response.

Hogan almost laughed with relief as he caught sight of his prisoner. _So much for the ol' sixth sense._

He signalled the all-clear. A curious buck was the least of their worries.

After what happened earlier, he was glad to see _all _his men securing their weapons as they stepped from their hiding places. They had intended to back him up. 

Nodding to the group, he holstered his gun, pleased that the tension that had plagued them since the start of the mission had dissipated

_Maybe there is hope for this band of merry men.  
_

* * *

© 2003 by Cassandra Troy. _Hogan's Heroes _is a registered trademark of Bing Crosby Productions and Viacom/Paramount. "I'll Be Home for Christmas" © 27 September 1943 by Walter Kent (music) and James "Kim" Gannon (words). This work of fan fiction is not meant in any way to infringe on copyrights already held by these companies, their subsidiaries and/or their estates. 


End file.
